


This Must Be The Place

by stoprobbers



Series: Sweetheart!Verse [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:22:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a sequel/interlude to "sweetheart." this is how we get from christmas to spring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Rose chews her thumbnail absently as she stares out the train window. Outside the English countryside whips by, dappled with a light dusting of snow but mostly shining wet against the gray sky. It's been a rainy week, not cold enough for proper snow, just for slush and ugly slush at that.

The train slows as it pulls into a station. She huffs and looks away; serves her right for booking her ticket while she was  _supposed_  to be paying attention to her mother. She'd gotten snapped at for not listening  _and_ booked a local instead of an express train. It only added a half hour or so to the trip but it was enough to put her even more on edge.

She thinks perhaps she should admit she's nervous, at least to herself. 

She hasn't seen the Doctor since breakfast on Boxing Day. He'd stayed the night at her mother's insistence; with no family to return to and the holiday train schedule it had made sense. Jackie hadn't insisted but he slept on the couch anyway, their reconciliation too new for him to cross the threshold of her bedroom, though she had cuddled with him, trading quiet kisses, until she began to drop off and he insisted she get a proper night's sleep in her bed. After breakfast he'd kissed her at the front door and promised to call her when he got back to Oxford. They'd talked on the phone every day since and he promised he'd be at the station to meet her.

A harried looking man in a rumpled suit drops into the seat across from her, pulls down the table, and slams his laptop onto it. It teeters and almost falls as the train pulls out of the station and he glares at Rose like it is her fault. She shoots him a wry look in return and he huffs loudly and opens the computer. He doesn't look at her again.

Twenty minutes later they're puling into Oxfordshire station and her heart is hammering in her chest.

Their phone conversations had been long and intimate, continuations of the talk on the estate swings. There was still much they needed to say and they said it as best they could, haltingly and only half-spoken at times, punctuated by long silences and tense breath, but they've worked through it, she thinks. She certainly feels better about some things. But they haven't been alone together, properly alone together, since before Reinette and that awful night at the Lamb and Flag. It's weeks still until school is back in session; all they will have is time alone now.

She goes back to chewing on her thumbnail as the now-even-more-harried businessman gathers his things and elbows his way off the train with the handful of other passengers in her car. When they've gone she stands, grabs her rucksack and, with a deep breath, disembarks.

The platform is crowded but not overly so and she scans the throng of travelers for a head of spiky brown hair but doesn't see anything. Her heart drops a little bit into her stomach and she gives herself a little shake, trying to physically shrug off the anxiety. He said he'd be here, so of course he'll be here. Why wouldn't he? Why shouldn't she trust his word? The trust doesn't come as easy as it did before, sure, but he's been open and honest with her, he's apologized and pledged to do better, to never let something like that happen again, and just because he was maybe a little late doesn't mean she can't trust that he  _will_  be there. The anxiety doubles back on itself and swells. She frowns. 

"Stop it," she says softly but aloud.

"Rose!"

Her eyes dart towards the sound of his voice and there it is, wild head of hair and one long arm waving over a middle-aged couple that does not exactly look charmed. She waves back and starts to make her way towards him, ducking around fellow travelers with sheepish "'Scuse me, pardon me"s. Anxiety has given way to anticipation; she feels fluttery and young instead of worried. They meet close enough to halfway and he immediately scoops her up into a hug. 

"I missed you," he murmurs into her hair and she grins into his shoulder, closing her eyes and squeezing him back. He lifts her off her feet for a second then sets her back down, letting go and pressing a short kiss to her mouth.

"Welcome back!" he announces before she can reply then grabs her hand and starts pulling her back to the pavilion and towards the street. She falls into step beside him as he recaps his journey to her, apologizing for being late and steering them towards a waiting bus. They settle into a pair of seats near the back, her rucksack wedged between her legs and the wall, forcing her to turn towards him a little more. She doesn't mind.

"So what do you want to do this evening?" he asks, gesturing at the setting sun as the bus lurches forward. "Donna's got a shift at the Lamb if you want to grab dinner there and say hello; she's missed you too. I think Tegan and Jamie are either still here or back, I can't remember which. Everyone else is still gone, I think, I haven't really–that is I've sort of kept to myself a bit, I was mostly worried about–but you're probably tired?"

She laughs at the sudden gush of words and his increasingly embarrassed expression, leans in and kisses him again instead of answering right away. He kisses her back, and she feels him relax markedly when he does, feels herself relax in kind. When she pulls away he grins dopily at her for a moment before drawing a breath to continue his babble, but this time she succeeds in cutting him off.

"I am a bit tired, and I need to drop this off, at least," she gestures to her overstuffed bag. "I wouldn't mind stopping by Tesco's, too, I don't think I even have tea anymore. Whatever's in the fridge has definitely gone off by now–"

She cuts herself off, a horrified expression taking hold of her face. "Oh my god, I left the flat a complete disaster. I bet it's  _disgusting_. Oh god, there were dishes in the sink! They must be rotten by now! Ohhhhh…"

The Doctor reaches up and scratches the back of his neck, gaze flitting away from hers. 

"No, I may have, um, cleanedwhenIbrokein?"

The confession comes out in a rush and it stings a bit, the reminder of the how's and why's of her abrupt departure, but mostly she is gobsmacked that he tidied for her.

"Thank you," she breathes but he talks over her.

"And yes, of course we can go round the shop, no one should start their morning without a cuppa, least of all us."

She decides to let it go for now; this is not a moment for head on confrontation but to back away, take it easy. They haven't had it so easy lately; she wants it to be easy tonight.

"I am tired," she says again. "Let's make dinner and stay in, yeah?"

"Yeah," he agrees with a smile and kisses her again.

At Tesco's they stock up on tea, milk, bread for toast, some fruits and vegetables and packets to make curries and kormas. He keeps reaching for sweets and she keeps batting his hands away, telling him he can fill his flat with sugar but she'd rather eat  _real_  food, ta. The Doctor selects a packet of chicken breasts, a box of rice, and a can of broth and promises to make her dinner. She tops off their cart with a few bottles of wine. At the till he takes her rucksack from her, shoulders it, and wraps his arms around her from behind, nuzzling behind her ear. She can't hold back a moony giggle until she catches the cashier rolling his eyes; the Doctor doesn't seem to care, just holds her close as she pays for her groceries and hefts the bags and they set off towards her flat. 

It's not a long walk but she feels the nerves build in the pit of her stomach despite the Doctor's pleasant rambling (he's recounting, in great detail, his New Year's celebration with Donna he'd only glossed over on the phone). Every step closer to her flat is a step away from distraction and why, _why_ , is she so excruciatingly anxious?

She slips two of the grocery bags onto her wrist and starts to fiddle about in her pocket for her keys as they turn the corner towards her front door. They're halfway up the steps when she manages to get them out but they slip through her chilled fingers and clatter to the ground. Without missing a beat the Doctor kneels down and scoops them up. He's about the stand again when they both freeze.

"Oooh," he says with a grin. "We've been here before!"

He winks at her, "Let me help?"

Something inside her loosens suddenly. "Shouldn't you be assuring me you're not a rapist, hm?" 

He laughs and goes to unlock the front door, giving the key a little wiggle it didn't used to need. She's reminded very suddenly that he broke into her flat, even though he had mentioned it not thirty minutes ago. Somehow, in the whirlwind that had taken over her life at Christmas, she'd never really contemplated the  _breaking in_  aspect of that information.

"Am I gonna get a bill from student housing?" she asks as they trudge up the stairs, the Doctor still in the lead. "For my door?"

"Oi, are you implying I'm some sort of crude cat burglar?"

"Never had to jiggle the front door before." 

"Doors stick in the winter all the time."

He holds the door to her flat open for her, her tiny one bedroom with a half kitchen. She's missed it, a little space to call her own. He drops her rucksack by the small sofa and follows her into the kitchen, helping her put away the groceries, setting aside what he needs for himself. She feels filthy, even though the journey was relatively short, but she doesn't really want to be away from him, doesn't want to stop touching him, so she slides her hand around his back and over his hip as she walks off to change and freshen up. On the way she grabs the remote and turns on the television, seeking something to fill the extra silence beyond the clank and clatter of pots and pans.

In her bedroom she sheds her jeans and jumper, digging around in the mess of her dresser until she finds a pair of thick thermal leggings and a loose vest. After a moment of contemplation she takes off her bra and tosses it aside, slipping the vest over bare skin; it's a relief. The flat is chilly, the heat up for the first time in weeks and still finding its way around, so she grabs a cardigan as well, a thin one, and pads barefoot into the bathroom. She brushes her teeth and pointedly doesn't look in the mirror as she washes her face but when she straightens to dry off it's unavoidable. Wiping the water from her skin, she meets her own eyes and lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

 " _What_  are we doing, eh?"

She says it softly but it seems like a shout anyway. Besides, she's not even sure what she's asking. What shouldn't she be doing? The Doctor is her boyfriend, she loves him — she's  _told_  him she loves him — and he loves her, and told her as well. She's been aching for him since Christmas, was wrecked when she realized they were going to be spending New Year's apart; she's been  _looking forward_ to this. But now that he's here in front of her, here in her flat, she's torn between the nerves of the teenager she was four years ago and the desires of the woman she is quickly turning into.

Her hands are shaking as she smoothes on moisturizer, and  _not_  from nerves.

She considers herself briefly in the mirror. "You are a nutter."

"Rose?" 

Before she can think her way out of it she swipes on some mascara and slicks the tinted lip balm on her sink across her mouth and skitters out of the bathroom. The Doctor is standing by the foot of her bed, a dishtowel in one hand.

"Sorry, just washing the train off me."

His eyes have glazed over, his mouth ever so slightly agape and it perplexes her. At first she thinks he can't meet her eye but after a moment she realizes that's because he's not looking at her face, even a little bit. With a smirk her whole stance shifts, hip cocking out and arms crossing under the objects of his attention. It seems to snap him out of his and his eyes shoot back up to her own amused gaze. 

"Erm."

"You are  _such_  a bloke sometimes," she laughs and nudges him with her hip on her way back to the sitting room. He follows her, babbling nonsense until she shoves the remote at him.

"You pick," she instructs and goes to open a bottle of wine. There's a covered pan on her two-burner stove that rattles as it bubbles away. The Doctor finds a rerun of the big year-end quiz program and accepts his wine glass with a smile and a pat on the cushion next to him.

She takes the invitation, settles in at his side. He drapes his free arm over her shoulders and she rests her cheek on the side of his chest. They watch the show for a while, bantering about the answers and laughing at the jokes and she starts to relax, really and properly, for what feels like the first time in weeks. Slowly her focus drifts from the telly to the man she's draped over, and when she looks up at him he's already looking at her. A grin spreads across his face and she feels her own mouth stretch to answer it just before he leans down and brushes his lips over hers.

He keeps his touch light, building slowly, a feather brush to a more lingering touch, a quick swipe of the tongue over his lips and hers by proxy and then a longer press, a little bit of suction, a mere hint of an angle. She doesn't move, just closes her eyes and offers herself up to him, letting herself get lost in his delicate movements. Each kiss stretches a little longer until she hears him inhale sharply, preparation, she knows, for a much longer kiss. He's just moved his mouth to hers when her microwave lets out a shrill series of beeps. The timer.

"No way," Rose groans, eyes still closed but lips turning down in a frown. The beeps repeat. "This is like a sitcom."

"But it's not a sitcom," the Doctor murmurs, "It won't burn."

Before she can reply he covers her mouth with hers, kissing her forcefully. Her lips part instinctively and he takes advantage, sweeping his tongue into her mouth and finally kissing her like she's been thinking about since leaving London. Her entire body flushes, heat racing from her mouth to her scalp, to her finger and then her toes, and then all around again, finally pooling between her legs. Perhaps she moans, she can't really keep track anymore.

He buries a hand in her hair, tilting and guiding her head and she's melting into a fizzy puddle on the sofa, there is no way she can be maintaining corporeal form. Her blood is loud in her own ears and she realizes she's started tremble at about the same time she realizes the damn microwave is _still_  beeping.

"Turn that bloody thing off," she murmurs, not breaking the kiss, not really, because she doesn't want to eat dinner anymore, she wants to keep kissing him and if she gets hungry, well, she can think of some other ways to satisfy that particular feeling.  He chuckles and starts to pull back.

"And the stove. Don't want to burn dinner." 

"Nevermind dinner," she tries, leaning further up and into him as he keeps dropping short, smacking kisses on her lips.

"You're not hungry?"  
  
"No," she pulls back to look at him, eyes wide and earnest, shaking her head. Her stomach, ever traitorous, chooses that moment to growl. He laughs and stands, pulling her up after him.

 

***

Turns out they're hungry, really hungry, and the Doctor's made a delicious chicken and rice concoction. They fill their bellies and then overfill them, finishing one bottle of wine then opening a second. Then they curl up on the sofa with eyelids made heavy by food and drink, not really watching the television as he strokes Rose's arm and she tucks herself up between his legs. After a short while she's having trouble keeping her eyes open. She's about to ask if he's ready for bed when he lets out a soft, rumbling snore behind her. She tries to stifle her laughter but fails, and he wakes up with a snort. She laughs a little harder.

"What?" His voice is thick, tired, but he sounds indignant all the same. 

"I think it's time for bed," she says, unable to hold back a small yawn as she climbs off the sofa and offers him a hand. He takes it, pulls himself up, and hangs onto her hand as she shuts off the television and leads him to the bedroom. They split once they pass the threshold. The Doctor veers to the loo to brush his teeth with the extra toothbrush she keeps in the medicine cabinet for him. She comes up behind him as he's rinsing and they deftly switch places; she can hear him shedding clothes as she rinses and spits. When she reenters the bedroom it's dark and the Doctor is already tucked up in bed, her laptop open on the nightstand beside him with an episode of  _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_  queued up. It makes her heart flutter, the way he's put on one of her favorite shows, on of the ones he's made fun of before for being so very American. She sheds her cardigan and quickly shoves off the thermal leggings, trying not to think about the way his gaze skitters over her legs and where they pause, linger. She slips into bed beside him, turning on her side and wiggling back into him until her bum is pressed into his crotch. He is half hard and raises his hips, pressing against her for a moment. His arms slip around her and squeeze for a second, then he reaches over her and hits the play button on the episode.

The gesture is sweet and wonderful but she's not in the mood for watching, she's in the mood for touching and also sleeping because now that she's finally between the cool sheets she is bone tired. On the small screen a vampire roars and attacks but she turns in the Doctor's arms instead, arching her back to press her chest against his. He tightens his grip on hers, slides one hand down to her hip and squeezes as he presses his mouth to hers. There's no teasing this time, no light touches like from before, just his tongue sweeping into her mouth, teasing hers, coaxing it out into his own. If she was standing, her legs would be jelly; since she's not, she throws one over his hips and hauls him a little closer. It's awkward lying down but she manages to get her arms up around her neck and her hands into his hair, twisting and pulling lightly. The and on her hip slides lower to her bum and squeezes, each fingertip pressing into her flesh. With their legs tangled the way they are she can feel him against her core, growing harder.

She breaks their kiss when she needs to breathe and he immediately ducks his face to her neck, rolling them slightly so she's more on her back than her side and he has access to the skin he wants. She lets her head loll back, exposing as much of her neck to him as she can, and closes her eyes. His mouth is magical, nipping and licking and sucking at just the right moment, leaving a mark she's sure but she just doesn't care, not when it feels so good. One hand stays in his hair, keeping him in place as he slowly works his way down towards her collarbone then further, nose nudging the top of her vest out of the way to kiss down her sternum, then over to her breast. She can't help the way she arches, bucks into him when he pulls her shirt to the side and latches onto her nipple. She sucks in a deep breath, overwhelmed for a moment by sensation, and then it happens. The breath she's drawn catches, lengthens, deepens. Entirely against her will, she's yawning. Hugely.

The Doctor's head pops up, his lips dark and swollen and his eyes twinkling. She meets his gaze, smiles sheepishly when the yawn is finally done.

"I should probably be insulted."

"I'm sorry!" 

"You're sorry, you're tired, you're not up for this." 

She wants to rush to assure him that no, she is quite up for this, she can be and will stay up for this, but he's already pulling a bit away, rolling off her. She slides her leg up his, over his hip, to keep him where he is.

"I'm sorry," she says again. "I didn't realize I was so knackered."

"A long train journey, London to Oxford," he teases, rolling off her completely. She pouts and drapes herself over him as he rearranges the covers on top of them. He looks gorgeous in the flickering computer light and she grins, presses her lips to his again. He kisses her back but doesn't let her run away with it, pulling back slowly after a long moment.

"I think," he says after a minute, shifting them deeper into the covers, more into a position to sleep than to keep canoodling, "that you should rest up, get yourself some energy for the morning. Because in the morning, Rose Tyler, I do believe I'm going to take some liberties with you, and you need to be ready."

"Is that a promise?" she asks, snuggling into his arms and closing her eyes. She reckons she can hear him grin. He doesn't answer and within only a handful of minutes, much faster than she'd ever admit, she's asleep. 

Rose is jostled awake when the Doctor climbs over her to use the loo. She blinks in the dim gray light, trying to figure out what time it is. The computer screen is dark and stays dark when she tries to wake it so she digs around in the purse beside her bed until she can find her phone. The numbers it displays announce that it is far, far too early for her to be awake. She scoots over into the warm sheets the Doctor has just vacated and curl up with her back to the room, shutting her eyes tight and willing herself back to sleep. She hears him pad across the room and bounces when he jumps into the tiny bed, wrapping himself completely around her, so tight it's almost smothering. He kisses her ear, her cheek, then around to her nose and finally her mouth, nibbling until she rolls over and then kissing her deeply until she is trembling. He pulls back and drops down into bed next to her and she opens her eyes, torn between wanting to go back to bed and wanting to have him as the sun comes up.

He is laying on the pillow beside hers and she examines his face; his wild hair sticking up in all directions, his half-closed eyes, crinkled at the corners because he is grinning at her. He has a day's growth of stubble, a shadow on his jaw with the slightest ginger tinge. She reached out and runs the back of her fingers over his cheek, feeling the sandpapery texture. He catches her hand, brings it to his mouth to kiss each fingertip. She blushes; she can't help it.

She opens her mouth — to tell him she loves him or ask him, politely, to fuck her into the mattress already — but he speaks before she can. 

"Let's go somewhere," he says.

"Huh?" she so eloquently rejoins. He chuckles.

"Let's go somewhere. I can borrow Donna's car. Classes don't start again for over a week; let's get out of town, just you and me. Winter holiday, the way it should have been."

The "should have been" is a bit like a bucket of cold water, not exactly drowning the desire that had been pooling in the pit of her stomach but definitely dampening it. The little reminders that things had to go wrong, horrifically wrong, before they could get back to rights are so entirely unwelcome.  But the feeling passes and she realizes he's said something, he's suggested something, a real idea, a real plan. A trip out of town. She considers for a moment, thinks of spending the next week in her flat and his flat and all the reminders and questions and the pressures that lurk in the shadows in those places and thinks he might be on to something. 

"Yeah," she nods after a moment, "let's go somewhere. That sounds great."

"Brilliant!" He swoops in for another kiss and then throws the duvet off them, exposing his long lean legs and dark blue boxer briefs. She ogles for a second before she realizes he means to get going  _right now._  

"No, no, no," she pushes him back down and grabs the duvet, yanking it over them both before he can get out of bed. "I'm going back to sleep. It's not even morning yet."

"But Rose–" 

"At least three more hours," she says firmly and flips over so her back is facing him. She hears him sigh but he curls up behind her all the same, draping one arm over her waist as he fits his knees behind hers.

"Sleeping," he scoffs quietly. "Such a waste of time."

"Sure you don't want to rest up? Sure you won't need the energy?" she asks, flinging his words last night back at him. He nuzzles the back of her neck and she feels his lips curve into a smile againt her skin.

"Touché," he says. She falls back asleep.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
In the morning, the proper morning, Rose wakes stiff and cramped. She's crammed into the corner of the small bed, right up against the wall and contorted to accommodate another body, a long lanky body, but she is alone. For one fuzzy moment she panics, unable to understand why he'd just leave like that, then a muffled crash penetrates the thin door of her bedroom. She draws a long, sharp breath, finally moving and stretching as full awareness crashes into her and she realizes he's in the kitchen. With another stretch that cracks her elbows, shoulders, and two vertebrae in her neck, she heaves herself out of bed and pads into the loo.

When she emerges, still bare-legged, she finds him dressed in his clothes from the day before but barefoot, with his mobile held between ear and shoulder. He's chattering away at someone with his back to her and by the sounds and motions she can see, he's making tea. She grabs the blanket from the back of the sofa, wraps it around her shoulders to ward off the chill in her flat, and walks up to his side, trying not to startle him. He glances down at her when she sidles up next to him and grins.

"Oh you're lovely, thank you so much Sarah," he says into the phone, dropping tea bags into mugs and pouring hot water over them. Careful to keep the blanket round her shoulders, Rose works a hand onto the small of his back, leaning against his upper arm as she watches the steam rise from the brewing tea. "Yes, yes, I'll call when we set off and again when we're close. Yes. Yes. All right, cheers for now."

He rings off and immediately leans down to place a kiss delicately on her lips. She grins.

"Morning," he say before reaching for a mug. She grabs the other and takes it to the small table she crammed in a corner last semester. He follows with milk and a spoon for sugar.

"And you," she replies. "Who was that?"

"Oh that, that was Sarah Jane. Old friend, of the family really, my family before they–Anyway, she's got a holiday house in Cornwall, said we could stay there for a few days. It's lovely, very rustic."

"Cornwall, eh?" Rose stirs a dollop of milk into her tea, then half a teaspoon of sugar, then raises it to her lips, savoring the first sip. "That's your grand destination, then?"

"Well, sort of had to make it up, didn't I? Didn't exactly plan this in advance."

That catches her genuinely off guard. She was tired but she heard the confidence in his voice that morning; she thought he  _had_  planned something. "No?"

"Nope," he pops the 'p' exuberantly. "Nothing to do round here, not really, and your friends are all gone 'til classes are back, and any of my friends who are hanging about the place are neck deep in research and dissertations. Boring. It's like five weeks of Sundays, and Sundays are so boring."

She thinks back to the fall, to before Reinette and a number of Sundays spent doing things that were decidedly  _not_  boring. It must show on her face, because the Doctor seems to catch her expression and the tips of his ears turn red.

"Ok, maybe not  _all_  Sundays are boring."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she laughs and takes a longer gulp of the cooler tea. It feels perfect, waking each cell of her body as the heat penetrate from her stomach outward.

"So you'll pack a bag for a few days, we'll grab the car and a pack from my flat, and hit the road. It's three and a half hours drive, thereabouts."

"What now? We just woke up. Or, at least,  _I_  just woke up."

"You sleep too much."

"No such thing."

His eyebrow rises and a wicked look comes over his face, startling her into stillness. He opens his mouth to let out whatever lascivious comment he has brewing and is interrupted immediately by the shrilly ring of his mobile. They both jump, then laugh, looking quizzically at the phone on the tiny kitchen table before he picks it up and raises it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Oi! Where the hell is my daughter?!"

Her mother's voice echoes tinny but loud through the small space as the Doctor yanks the phone away from his ear as if he's been burned, staring at it in horror and revulsion. Whatever mood had been building since she'd emerged from the bedroom disperses immediately and Rose sets her tea down, holding out her hand for the device.

"I forgot to call when I got in," she explains softly, wiggling her fingers. "Got distracted, for some reason."

He practically throws the mobile at her, then stands and walks away from the table as if he needs extra space. She resists the urge to laugh at him.

"Mum," she says into the phone, "Sorry, I completely–"

"Rose!" her mother shrieks. "Darling, I was so worried! I told you to  _call_ me when you arrived. Something could've happened! You could have been dead in a ditch!"

"Right, I'm sorry, I just forgot–"

"What if you'd been attacked? What if the bus had crashed on the way to your flat? What if someone kidnapped you?"

"Mum, I think you're being a little–"

"The train could've gone off the rails and I'd have been left here just wondering where you were! I'd never know!"

"Mum, I think if the train crashed it would at least make the news," Rose points out in a rush, trying to finish a sentence before her mother could interrupt again. Over by the toaster, the Doctor snorts a laugh. She flashes him a quick two-finger salute, but she can't keep an answering grin from her face. He returns his attention to his toast-making task with a wink.

"Well, how should  _I_  know? You never called, and when I rang you your mobile was dead."

She raises her hand to her forehead, rubbing lightly. "Yeah, I forgot to plug it in last night. Sort of just collapsed once I got in; it's not that Oxford is so far but the train takes it out of you somehow."

"Riiiight," Jackie drawls. "That's why the Doctor's mobile was on and answered, mm? And why you were so close at hand? Did you even go home last night?"

"Mum!" Rose yelps, torn between embarrassment and fury in the way only mothers can provoke. "We're at my flat, just made some dinner and went to bed last night. I told you, I was knackered."

"Yeah, went to bed, I’m sure you–"

"All right, that's enough," she cuts her off firmly. She may technically still be a teenager for a few more months, but she is not a child. "I'm sorry, ok? I'll make sure to charge my mobile right now, promise."

"So the trip was all right then?"

Rose stands, going to fetch her phone from the outside pocket of her rucksack along with its charger and plugs it in as her mother keeps chattering in her ear. Separated for less than 24 full hours but there seems to be months of gossip to convey. When she returns to the kitchen the Doctor has put a plate of toast on the table and is spreading marmalade liberally on the one in his hand. He takes a big bite and, with his mouth full, raises his wrist to show her his watch, then shakes it around a bit in emphasis. She nods.

"Mum," she interrupts her again. "I've gotta go, yeah? Gotta shower and pack; the Doctor and I are off for a couple days. I'm not sure how good service I'll have where we're going, so try not to panic yeah?"

"Off to where?" Her mother sounds bewildered. "You just got back."

"Well, it's a bit dead before the term starts again and the Doctor's got a friend with a holiday home in Cornwall, so we're off to the coast I s'pose."

"A friend? With a house?"  
  
"Family friend."

"Thought he didn't have a family."

" _Mum_!" She hopes fervently her mother's voice isn't carrying far.

"What? That's what you told me. Why's he only telling you about this house now?"

"It's not  _his_  house, it's his  _friend's_ ," Rose plunks herself down in the other chair at mimes hitting her head on the table a few times. The Doctor chuckles, but keeps shoving toast in his mouth.

"Yeah but —"

"Mum," Rose says firmly, almost angrily, "I'll try to ring you when we get to Cornwall, ok, but I may not have service for a couple of days. Now, I've got to go get ready. I love you, okay?"

She rings off as the Doctor finishes chewing, reaching for a slice of toast herself and butters it limply.

"She's a delight, eh?"

"That's my mother you're talking about," Rose warns limply, but doesn't contradict him. He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and lets his fingers pause on her cheek. She smiles at him, this time for real.

"Thanks for breakfast," she says, taking a bite of her toast and waiting to chew and swallow before she continues. "I just need to shower, and pack, and then we can be on our way."

"Why don't you meet me round my flat? I could use a shower myself and then you won't have to wait for me to pack, either. We can hit the road sooner."

"Itching to get out of town?"  
  
"Well, I've been cooped up here all winter. It's been boring."

"Without all your friends?"

"Without you," he says softly, staring into her eyes. She feels as if she's falling into them, feels herself leaning forward and thinks he may be doing the same but isn't sure until his head tilts and their lips are pressing softly together. She savors the kiss, the way he tastes of bread and marmalade and the way it mixes with the richness of the butter on her tongue. She's on the verge of losing her balance so she reaches up and grasps his shoulder to steady herself and feels the tension there, the way his muscles seem to be subtly vibrating as if he's trying to hold himself back. She wonders why, until she realizes she is doing the same thing. She doesn't know why she is holding back, but she isn't sure she's ready to let go yet.

They separate with a soft sound and he grins at her.

"Shower and pack. I'll see you at my flat soon, right?"

"Right," she agrees, watching him put his trainers back on and gathers his coat, walking him to the door.

"Pack something nice," he murmurs and smiles wide at her one more time before slipping out. Quietly, she closes the door and pauses, staring at the wood as half-coherent thoughts fly through her mind. Then she turns on her heel and walks purposefully towards the bathroom and the shower therein.

 

***

Rose lets herself into the Doctor's flat, half expecting to see Donna come flying at her but finding an empty sitting room instead. She calls his name and hears a muffled thump above her, so she follows it up the stairs. His bedroom door is ajar, his backside pointed at her as he bends over a small suitcase, methodically packing clothing into it. She grins, leaning against the doorframe for a moment to admire the view and his head pops up, glancing over his shoulder to find her there. He grins back.

"See something you like?" he teases. Her tongue sneaks out from between her teeth as her smile widens. He wiggles his bum a little in return and goes back to packing. By the time she crosses the room to get to him he's straightened again and she slides her hands around his waist, holding him tight as she presses her forehead between his shoulder blades. She can feel his ribcage expand and collapse as he takes a deep breath and lets it out again.

"Took you long enough," he says and she can feel his voice rumble through his chest. "Come on, then, are you ready to go?"  
  
"Why all the rush?" she asks, loosening her grip until he can turn in her arms and he does. She rests her chin on his chest, giving him her best puppy dog eyes. "Where's Donna?"

"Work, or maybe Lee's," he shrugs. "What, don't you want to go?"

"Of course, but it's just barely noon! It's not like we've got the whole country to drive."

"But it's a gorgeous drive, Rose, you'll want to be able to see the scenery. It'll be dark before you know it!"

"So I'll see it on the way back. We've got the whole flat to ourselves, Doctor–"

"There's a whole house waiting for us in Cornwall."

"I don't think they're mutually exclusive," she frowns, moves slightly away. He catches her hips, keeps her from moving too far, but doesn't tug her all the way back either. Something uncomfortable settles in her stomach; he'd put the brakes on it last night, kept it from starting this morning, and was rushing them out of the flat. She tries not to feel rejected, with mixed results.

It must show on her face because he does tug her closer then, pulls her against him and dips his head to hers, catching her lips in a long, slow kiss. Her arms go immediately around his neck, holding him close and keeping him there, feeling any discomfort melt away under the heat and taste of him. She presses closer, wanting him, wanting to feel more than just the hint of his heat and his strength through the his jeans and jumper. These stutter steps, these odd wrong moves that she can't pinpoint the origin for, they've wound her tight and in his arms she starts to loosen. She's sinking in to this oozing, wanton feeling when he pulls back a touch, drops a few more light kisses on her mouth, and then gently untangles them. She's left to stare at him, mouth agape.

"A whole cottage," he repeats, sliding his hands down her arms and taking her right hand in his left. That rejected feeling returns.

"All right, fine," she sighs, keeping their fingers entwined as he snatches up his suitcase and leads them down the stairs. "So what's this fabled car about, huh? I didn't know you could drive."

"Why wouldn't I be able to?"  
  
"Dunno. You haven't yet?"  
  
"Oh, Rose," he let go of her hand to grab his coat and the keys, "there are so many things I haven't done yet."

The car itself is a surprisingly suburban thing, boxy and practical and a vivid shade of blue. It is obviously Donna's car, Rose thinks, because if it was the Doctor's she's sure it would be ramshackle and pieced together from parts out of different decades (maybe even different centuries), and probably some godawful shade of yellow. Watching him load their two small suitcases into the trunk alongside the small cooler of snacks she's brought along — the things they'd bought yesterday that would go bad before her return to her flat and some other snacks — feels very domestic and sends a flurry of butterflies she can't quite name into the pit of her stomach. It is not an unpleasant feeling.

She pulls out the oversized book of maps tucked in the pocket on the back of the passenger seat as the Doctor protests the need for it and, after buckling herself in, flips open to the page for south England, tracing her finger along the many highways that could take them down to the Cornwall peninsula.

The Doctor is still rambling about how he knows the southern peninsulas like the back of his hand, and  _Rose_ , don't you trust me _,_  I would never steer us wrong, but something he said back in the flat flares up like a neon sign and she holds up a finger to hush him as they carefully turn off the tiny neighborhood street and onto a road actually meant for driving. He quiets.

"Hold on," she says, shooting him a quizzical look, "Who's Lee?"

Nearly the entire first hour of the drive is taken up by the Doctor's detailed recounting of the grand courtship of Donna Noble by Lee Pitt. Late nights at the pub are recounted in minute detail, and the grand tragedies of the Doctor's secondhand experiences of many mornings after related with nearly as much import as Homeric poetry. Rose is in fits in the passenger seat, shoes kicked off and feet on the dashboard as she listens to his rich baritone bend and leap with the stories he tells.

"You didn't give them a moment's peace, did you?" she giggles after he finishes telling her about waking up to find them still in the sitting room on New Year's Day. "Donna was so lovely about clearing out for us but I bet you never did for her, did you?"  
  
"Oi, it's my flat too!"

"You're so rude!" She laughs again and shakes her head. Her hand reaches over, slides up his arm and to the back of his head, playing with the longer hairs there. He glances at her for a second but keeps his eyes on the road as she scratches lightly. A small hum of pleasure escapes when her nails scrape over a particularly sensitive spot.

"You like it."

"I  _tolerate_  it," she teases. "Oh, poor Donna. I bet she'll be delighted when she comes home and you're gone."

"Oi! What are you trying to say?"

"That you're a rubbish flatmate."

"So you wouldn't want to live with me?"  
  
The question is unexpectedly serious and catches her off guard, almost knocks the breath out of her entirely. For a moment all she can do is stare at him, wondering how to interpret this, what he's really asking of her. She feels a little dizzy and realizes she's been holding her breath; she also realizes he's staring at her out of the corner of his eye. Her hand has stopped moving in his hair and the muscles in the back of his neck, under her hand, are tight, tense. She has to say something.

"Well," she says slowly, focusing on keeping the tone light, on staying cheeky. "In  _my_  case there would be some… fringe benefits that would make up for your complete lack of manners, I suppose."

The tension doesn’t entirely ebb from his shoulders but he does smile at her.

"Fringe benefits, eh?"  
  
"Just a few things that would make life a little more tolerable, living with someone as rude as you." She lets her hand fall from the back of his head and trace down his arm, pausing to circle the bare skin of his wrist where his shirt sleeve has ridden up and then drifting over to his thigh. He looks down at her hand when it settles over his jeans, nearly able to span the width of his slender limb.

"Are you trying to get us into an accident?"

"Of course not," she giggles, moving her hand a bit further inward until his inseam is under her fingertips. "I'm  _trying_  to finish what you started last night."

"Patience, my Rose." His hand lifts off the gearshift to pick hers up and move it away from it more provocative position. She pouts; she can't help it. "Oh, don't do that."

"What?"  
  
"Pout," he lets go of the gearshift again, touches a finger to her lips. "It's very distracting."

"Oh is it?"  
  
"And I'm trying to get us safely to Cornwall."

"We could make a stop."

"It'll be dark in only a couple hours."

"So you'd rather make a stop after it's dark, is that what you're saying? Afraid someone will see?" She grins, tongue between her teeth, and gestures to the massive and empty pasture they're driving through.

"I'm trying to stay on schedule."

"There's a schedule now?"  
  
"There's always been a schedule."

"So you  _did_  plan this."

"No, not until this morning," he frowns at her. "Can't you just go along with this?"

He sounds properly annoyed which surprises her so she lets it drop. Silence settles over the car, weighty and uncomfortable, until Rose finally leans forward and switches on the radio. Top 40 pop blares out and they both grimace and reach for the knob to change stations at the same time. Fingers bump together and she laughs, batting his hand away and starting to scan for a better station. After a few tries she finds a station playing The Cure and settles back into her seat. Instead of settling on the gearshift again, the Doctor's hand finds hers and laces their fingers together tightly. She looks at him, finds him looking back at her momentarily before he has to return his eyes to the road.

"Trust me?" His voice is soft, tentative.

"Always," she answers, rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand. He squeezes a little tighter, smiles without looking at her again.

"Good. Now, look out your window or you'll miss all the countryside."

Without letting go of his hand, she does.

 

***

The cottage is a short ways outside of Truro, close enough for the cathedral's spires to still be visible on the horizon but far enough to be immersed in countryside peace and quiet. The sun set nearly an hour ago, creating a spectacular, blazing sunset spread across the striking landscape and she'd had to give to the Doctor then; the view was worth the rush out of the house. The map only really needs using right at the end as they try to find the little roads (not all of which are even on the map) based on Sarah Jane's directions and local landmarks. The dark has spread like velvet across the sky by the time they pull into the driveway and when Rose stretches to relieve the cramps of a four hour drive the stars twinkle like diamonds poured by a jeweler for a customer's approval. There are so very many of them and for a moment she is utterly entranced.

"Beautiful isn't it?"

The Doctor's voice is very close to her ear which makes her jump and she finds herself quite unexpectedly leaning back against his chest. He wraps his arms around her shoulders, crossing them on her chest and she grasps his forearms in both hands as she leans back a little more.

"Gorgeous." She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "I've never been to Cornwall."

"No? Jackie not one for trips to the sea?"

"Mum liked to go north, not south. Or west?"

"Both, really."

"My aunt lives up near Blackpool so we'd go there in the summer sometimes. Tacky, but fun."

He doesn't say anything, just hangs onto her so she ventures forward. "Did you used to come here as a kid?"

"No, Sarah didn't buy the cottage until I was a teenager." He pauses and when he speaks again his voice is softer and further away. "That was after."

He releases her fully and opens the trunk, grabbing their cases and she follows with the cooler, on his heels as he unlocks the door with the key hidden under a potted plant. The cottage is dark and cold as they shed their coats, clearly unoccupied since summer, but when the Doctor flicks the light switch in the small front hallway it's lit up with a soft golden glow. Rose looks around as he goes in search of the thermostat. It's cozy but not cramped, decorated simply to highlight old plaster walls and wood floors. The small sitting room has a fireplace with a small pile of wood next to it, as well some really rather nice modern luxuries — a big television, a couple video game systems, an impressive wall of DVDs. When she turns she can see into the kitchen, which has an island with stools around it. She sets the cooler on the island and is putting its contents away when she hears a triumphant "Hah!" from down the hallway and the sound of a furnace kicking to life.

"My hero," she says with a smile when he reenters the sitting room. "So, is your friend Sarah a gamer?"

"What's that?" the Doctor asks, opening cabinets until he locates the glasses.

"There's an X-Box  _and_  a Playstation."

"Oh, she has a son," he says as he fills his glass with water and something deep inside Rose suddenly lifts, a weight she wasn't even aware of. This friend, whoever she is, is older than the Doctor, is not competition, is not a threat. The realization she'd even thought that at all surprises her, and she feels a small burn of shame. She was moving on from the end of the term, and she feels like she just slid back ten steps. The Doctor is oblivious to this internal battle and keeps talking.

"He's fourteen, I think, now? Luke. Nice kid. Ooh,  _great_  taste in games." He's crouched by one of the DVD shelves now and holds up a slender box. "Care to make a wager?"

"Only if you promise not to weasel out of it when I kick your arse!"

"You wish."

"We'll see." She walks over to the sofa and plops down. "So are we playing now? Or do you have more plans you can't tell me about?"  
  
"Did you pack something nice?" He joins her, sitting close. She snuggles into his side.

"I think so? You were a bit vague."

"Well, you'll need it tonight, but not right now. We've got some time."

"Oh do we?" She kicks off her shoes quickly and slides one leg over his lap, not quite straddling but much closer than before. "How much time?"

"Oh you know," he turns towards her as well, one hand on her leg, tracing up and down her calf through her jeans, "Some time."

"Doctor," she murmurs and presses even closer, "how much time?"

He doesn't answer, grabs her hip instead and dropping his mouth to hers. She winds her arms around his neck, holding him close as they slowly begin to shift. It's hard to kiss and move at the same time and his finger scrabble for purchase on jeans pulled tight by their position as he tries to maneuver her down onto her back. Distracted as he is he bites down a little too hard on her bottom lip and she squeaks, tugging his hair to bring him back to attention.

"Sorry," he says into her mouth, running his tongue along her lip to soothe the hurt away, then gently sucking on the offended flesh. She wiggles appreciatively against him and finally succeeds in getting horizontal. It's a tight squeeze on the couch but he settles between her legs and then together they scoot up so her head is supported by the sofa arm. Her legs come up around his hips, latching on as he works one arm underneath her, deepening their kisses. For what seems like an eternity they kiss and kiss, tongues teasing and tangling, chasing and retreating, barely pausing for breath. Their hips undulate together, not quite urgent but certainly not content to be still. Soft moans escape both of them, provoked by the brush of his hand against her rips or the way she tugs on her hair as she draws his tongue into her mouth and sucks. Slowly their hips begin to push together with more urgency and she pulls back far enough to talk.

"Doctor," she tries to say, even as he nips at her lips and then drops his face into her neck, licking, sucking, following a path she can't predict that makes gooseflesh break out across her chest and down her arms. He hums against her, a perfunctory response and she'd be annoyed but she can't quite remember what she was about to ask. She lifts her hips into his again. "Doctor, please…"

He doesn't reply, just pushes up the bottom of her jumper until it's all bunched under her armpits. It takes some wiggling as he's intent on kissing around her bra and cleavage but she manages to get her elbows bent in a way that won't accidentally knock him out and pull it off. He hums again, pleased this time, and pulls one cup of her bra out of the way so he can lick around her nipple. Her hands fly to his head to hold him in place and she grips his hips tighter with her calves.

"Oh, don't stop," she implores, feeling his fingers dig in a little deeper when she says it. She scrabbles at the back of his shirt, trying to pull it up as well but he doesn't move to help, doesn't do anything but switch to her other breast. When she tugs harder he lets that nipple go and sits up, out of her reach. She feels flushed and very, very annoyed.

"Ah, ah, ah," he admonishes, wagging his finger at her in a way that makes her want to smack him and tackle him all at once. Her stomach quivers, her entire body tense with desire.

"This is stopping," she points out, reaching for him again. He comes to her, hands beside her head and body hovering high above her in a way that lets her get a hand under his shirt but not at the right angle to tug it off.

"Not that much time," he says, dipping down to nip at the other side of her neck, the side he neglected earlier. "Some time, but not that much time."

She makes a noise of disapproval, which is abruptly cut off when he shifts his thigh so it's pressing right up against her center and leans in. The pressure and friction make her moan instead.

"This much time maybe," he continues, voice steady. She wants to knock him off kilter, tries to lift her pelvis to do just that but all it does is make more friction for her, makes her shudder and drop back down to the sofa. By the look on his face she thinks he knows exactly what he's doing. He reaches behind her, popping her bra open with one hand and a very smug look, then sits up to give her enough room to shrug it off. He pops the button on her jeans as she does, then pauses, just looking down at her. She feels the blush spread from cheeks to neck to chest and resists the urge to cover herself 

"What?" she finally asks. He mouth quirks up in a grin.

"You're beautiful," he says softly and leans down to kiss her again before she can reply. His kiss is forceful, dominant and she hangs onto his neck again as he braces himself above her with one hand. The other returns to her jeans, dragging the zipper down and slipping beneath her cotton knickers. She can't help but buck when his fingertips brush against her wetness, which brings the pressure of his thigh into play again. She cries out into his mouth and he chuckles.

"Oh Rose," he murmurs against her lips, "Oh, you're so–"

 "Doctor," she tries, as his middle finger begins to circle her clit, sending shockwaves down her spine. "Doctor, please, I want to–"

"Mmmm, later. Right now, I want–"

"Oh!" She cuts him off with a yelp as his finger moves down and abruptly slips inside her. It's quickly joined by another and while it's a tight fit with her jeans still almost all the way up, he manages to create delicious friction as he slowly moves them in and out of her. She can't keep kissing him, can't seem to draw enough breath, so she yanks her head away, staring at the ceiling as the pressure deep in her stomach begins to build and build. She expects him to move to her neck again but when he doesn't she moves her head and finds he is watching her intently, eyes wide and so very dark. They're magnetic and she cannot look away, struggles to keep her eyes open as he turns his hand and manages to press his thumb against her clit as his fingers curl and move a little faster and she snaps, like a bow releasing an arrow, shouting as she clenches down around him. He keeps moving his fingers as her spasms slow down, only sliding out of her when her breathing begins to slow and even out. He waits until her eyes open before removing his hand from her knickers and licking his fingers slowly. When he is done she reaches up and pulls him down for yet another kiss.

She reaches between them and finds the waist of his jeans and the bulge just a little lower down but when she grasps it he grabs her hand and moves it away. Slowly he begins to lift away from her again, moving to sit but she follows, kissing him lightly as he sits. He tilts his head up towards the ceiling, gasping for breath and she takes advantage to explore his neck a little herself. He tilts his head to accommodate her, but doesn't pull her closer. Her hand creeps back into his lap but he stops her before she can get a good grip on him or the button of his jeans and she sits up with something of a huff.

"It's my turn."

"Save it for later," he chuckles, tickling the skin of her ribs after he sets her hand back in her own lap. "We should get ready to go soon."

"Go where?" she asks, bewildered and frustrated and still humming from her orgasm. She doesn't want to go anywhere but bed right now.

"Dinner!" He says it like she's being thick but she can only gape at him. "You know, pack something nice?"  
  
"But you said that was later. It's barely been," she glances over to the clock on the microwave and though it's hard to see the number from all the way in the sitting room, her eyes widen when she deciphers it. The Doctor smirks at her, not even trying to hide his smugness. "Oh. It's later than I thought."

"Time flies when you're having fun?" He teases, raising an eyebrow. She smacks his chest lightly with the back of one hand and he catches it get again, but this time brings it up to his lips to kiss her fingertips. She smiles shyly at him.

"I made the reservation for seven thirty, but we've got to call for a taxi. The place Sarah recommended has an excellent wine list and I'd rather not worry about driving. We should probably clean up and get changed. Start, at least."

He stands then, pulling her off the sofa as well and drawing her into a close, comforting hug. She rests her head on his chest, feeling the scratchy wool of his jumper against her sensitive breasts, until his hands slide down to cup her bottom, then squeeze. It makes her giggle and he kisses the top of her head. When he lets go and steps back she looks up curiously at him.

"What is all this?" she asks softly, gesturing to the room and, more generally, the words he's just said. "Dinner reservations? A cottage in the country? What are you up to?" 

"Isn't it obvious?" he says as he walks to the front hall the retrieve their cases. "I'm wooing you."

Whatever she was expecting to hear, that wasn't it. She stares at him, utterly bewildered, as he takes their things through the sitting room and down the hall she assume leads to the bedrooms.

"Wooing me?" she echoes, but gets no reply. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It takes her forever to get ready.

At first they get ready together, in pants and undershirts, bare skin brushing as they navigate the small en suite. Even after a lightning-fast shower she's still tingling from the sofa, legs a bit gooier than normal and he notices, nudges her shoulder and slides his palm across her belly as he shifts her to the left to make room at the sink. But he doesn't take the time to shave (she's glad; his five o'clock shadow is just on the verge of scruff and she hopes he'll see it through) so she's left alone to put on her makeup and that's when she starts to wonder. He'd told her to pack something nice and she'd been confused then, unsure of what he was planning, but now that he's told her he's  _wooing_  her, of all things, she's more lost than ever.

She'd thrown a nice long jumper into her case, along with a dress and a skirt, but if he's planned something — and clearly he has — she's not sure any of them would be nice enough. She's never been here, has no clue what kind of  _nice_  Truro has to offer or the Doctor has in mind. He seems to get ready quick enough, calling out to her that he's opening a bottle of wine and does she want a glass (and she doesn't, not quite yet, she's unsteady enough on her feet as it is), not asking her opinion of his outfit or giving her a chance to look. She hadn't paid attention to his case either, isn't sure if he packed his beloved brown suit or just jumpers and trousers and she's not quite sure how to check now without him noticing. She lays her options out on the bed, considering, when he comes in with a glass of wine for her.

"Well," he says as he hands it to her, eyeing her underwear-clad form, " _I_  think you look lovely but I'd rather keep this view to myself if you don't mind."

He's wearing a pair of slim trousers, suit trousers but ones she hasn't seen before, dark blue, along with a snug, dark jumper over a tee shirt, deep maroon. He looks slim and lanky and long, and tries to keep her mouth from watering.

"Let me get dressed, then," is what she says and he turns back to the hallway, tossing a comment about their taxi coming soon over his shoulder. The jeans and jumper and skirt are quickly tossed back into her case before she digs around for the tights she's sure she brought. She's more interested in eating him than dinner at the moment, and she wants to feeling to be mutual.

The dress is jersey but warm, skimming and caressing the lines of her body in a way she hopes will drive him to distraction. The neckline is low enough to show off her cleavage, but high enough to keep him from getting a proper look, and the skirt shows off her legs and bum but swirls delightfully around her thighs instead of clinging to them. She'd felt a bit silly when she threw the heeled booties into her case, but she's glad to have them now, sliding them on and relishing the sharp click-click-click they make as she scoops up her purse and wineglass and joins him in the belly of the cottage.

He's saying something as she enters the sitting room again, something she's not paying attention to and that dies on his lips as soon as he turns to face her. As his voice stops mid-word his mouth stays open, gaping slightly at her as he takes her in, blinks a couple times. He doesn't snap out of it until she smirks and then he clears his throat, looking away and tugging nervously on his ear as he reaches for his wine and takes a big gulp. She tries not to laugh and mostly succeeds.

"Why thank you," she says with a small curtsy and he chuckles. She closes the gap between them quickly, leaning her hip against his as she sets down the wine and checks her purse to make sure she has the things she needs. "So where are we going?"

"Hold on, hold on." He reaches into his pocket and fishes out his cell phone, pressing buttons quickly with his thumb.  He pulls out his glasses to read and the light from the small screen reflects and momentarily obscures his eyes, giving him an odd air of mystery in the cozy cottage living room. She shifts closer to his side to read over his shoulder.

"You got it from your friend Sarah Jane?"  
  
"Yeah, she loves this place. Not too serious, but great wine, great food, great atmosphere. All the ingredients I need to woo one Rose Tyler," he says, dropping a kiss on her temple as he exits his messages. She grins but can't help but shake her head in confusion.

"I don't need–" she begins but is interrupted by the sharp, if slightly distant, honk of a car horn. The taxi. The Doctor steps away from her, quickly gulping down the rest of his glass of wine and re-corking the bottle before reaching for his coat. Rose leaves her wine be and slips her coat on instead. There is something happening that is just beyond her understanding and even as she lets him usher her out of the house to where the taxi is waiting on the street, she studies him. There's something not quite right but nothing's wrong either. As they reach the street at the end of the garden he stops, bends down and plucks something from beside the hedge. He hands it to her before stepping past her to open the taxi door, holding it patiently open for her to go through first.  It is a small but hearty flower, white, shaped like a bell, and hanging like one too, from its slim green stem. A snowdrop. She meets his eyes before she slides into the back seat. He winks.

 

***

Their destination looks suspiciously like a pub.   

Rose waits by the door of the taxi as the Doctor pays, walks by his side to the door, allows him to open it for her and guide her through with a hand at her lower back. The set of his shoulders is stiff, overly formal, as he gives his name to the host who leads them back to a darker corner of an already dim room, a spot that is private and intimate, clearly carefully selected for romance. Rose wonders if he asked for that when he made the reservation. She shrugs her coat off, hands it to the host and slides into her seat when the Doctor holds it out for her. There is a candle on the table and when he settles across from her his grin glows in the flickering light. The host hands them their menus, sets the wine list between them, and disappears into the shadows.

"So what do you think?"

It's dim but in a cozy way and, looking around, she thinks the room looks a bit like an old wine cellar but above ground. The walls are some sort of stone, old and smooth and a charcoal gray with filaments of something she can't see clearly enough to identify running through them. There are plenty of tables, no white tablecloths, and the murmur of conversation flowing beneath it all. She turns her attention back to the Doctor with a grin and only to see he's looking at the wine menu. She sighs and waits for him to look up; he's wearing his glasses and his eyes are obscured by the reflection of the candle.

"It's charming."

"Sarah said the food is delicious as well," he smiles at her again and returns his attention to the wine, "Red or white?"

She doesn't care, honestly, doesn't even feel much like drinking. She's starving — just toast that morning for breakfast and some sandwiches in the car on the way to Cornwall — but she doesn't even feel much like eating. She just wants to get to the bottom of this, whatever this is.

 _Wooing._  That's what this is.

She opens her menu, eyes skittering over delicious dishes — a combination of highbrow and pub food, she can tell, and so many potatoes her stomach can't help but growl a little — and the waiter comes over, filling glasses from a water bottle and taking the Doctor's wine order. The waiter is small and brunette and chirpily lists the night's specials before leaving them to decide. As soon as she does, Rose sets her menu aside.

"Doctor–"

"So what do you think? I thought the pasties sounded delicious, but is that too obvious? Cornish pasties in Cornwall, it's like the set up for one of Jackie's awful jokes."

"Doctor–"

"Or fish, maybe. I could go for brill..."

"Doctor!"

He looks up at the sharpness of her tone, face painted with genuine surprise. His eyebrows rise above his glasses.

"Yes, Rose?"

"What–"

The waiter has impeccable timing, impeccably  _bad_  timing, and reappears with wine bottle and two glasses. Rose practically growls at the interruption and slumps back in her chair during the uncorking, trying not to sulk. When the waiter asks if they're ready the Doctor replies with his order so she does as well, practically shoving her menu at the poor girl in hopes of getting her away from their table faster. The Doctor raises his eyebrows at her again and raises his glass for a toast but she pushes hers to the side. He takes a slow sip, avoiding her eyes.

"Can we talk, please?" she asks, feeling a little desperate. He sets his glass aside as well.

"Of course." He sounds nervous and butterflies flutter in her belly. She reaches across the table and grabs his hands, twining their fingers to reassure him, and herself.

"What is happening here?" Getting the words out feels triumphant.

"I told you, I'm wooing you."

"But  _what_  does that  _mean_? _"_

 _"_ Well, wine and flowers," he lets go of one hand, touches the snowdrop where she tucked it behind her ear, "Dinner and spontaneous winter holidays. A bit of sweeping off your feet."

"But why?"  
  
"What, I can't take my girl out on a date?" He sounds annoyed again, like in the car earlier, and it inflames her frustration.

"Yes! Or, no! Or–Doctor I don't  _need_  to be wooed. It's lovely, you're darling, but all of this, I don't  _need_  this! There's no reason for it!"

"Of course there is!" he bursts out and it's loud enough that neighboring tables look over at them in surprise. He slumps back in his seat, letting go of her hands and running his through his hair, mussing it spectacularly.

"Of course there is," he repeats, softer. He slides his glasses off, leans forward again, picks up her hands and finally meets her eye properly. "What I did… What I did to you wasn't fair, and it wasn't right, and it  _hurt_  you, and do you know what that feels like? I want to make it up to you. I  _have_  to."

It takes her a long moment to find words to answer him.

"But Christmas," she manages. "We talked about this at Christmas. I  _told_ you. I  _love_  you."

"And then I came home," he sighs, moving their knuckles up to his face and brushing them lightly against his scratchy cheek, "and the mess was all still there. I couldn't stop thinking about it, trying to figure out why I did it, why it happened, how I was supposed to make it right again. It didn't feel right without you there."

"I was just in London."

"I don't want you to leave again."

"Doctor," she tries to sit up straighter, her hands naturally drifting away from his as she does and he pulls them closer, resting her fingertips against his lips in an almost kiss. "I'm not leaving."

"I wouldn't blame you."

"You should stop blaming yourself." She carefully separates one hand and cups his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone. "I don't want to linger on the fall, or what happened. I don't want you to think you have something to prove, Doctor, 'cuz you don't. I just want to be with you. I don't  _need_  you to woo me, I  _need_  you to  _be_ with me."

He smiles again, this one slower and more genuine, more relaxed than anything she's seen since he picked her up at the train station. "So no flowers?"

"Well," she smiles, too, her tongue touching the corner of her mouth, "I didn't say that."

"Oh, so you do accept flowers."

"And nice dinners. And winter holidays to secret holiday homes in Cornwall."

"It's not a secret, it's just not mine is all." He kisses her knuckles before his face turns serious again. "I am with you, you know. I'm right here, with you."

"Good." She squeezes his fingers to emphasize her point. "Now stay here. What happened in the fall, with Reinette, that's past. That's done. OK? That's done."

"OK," he agrees, voice rough, and lets go of her hand to reach for his wine glass. This time she joins him and when he proffers the crystal bulb in a toast she gently clinks without hesitation.  Together, they drink.

 

***

 

The glassy wall of tension between them shatters after that. Their meals come, and as they eat they talk, finally talk like normal again. She tells him the classes she's signed up for that spring and he fills her in on the professors he knows. He catches her up on his work over the break and while she can tell he's been distracted — and that makes her chest ache, it does — he's also clearly enthused with the small breakthrough he's made on his dissertation research. The wine winds warm fingers through her veins and she finds herself entranced by him, food only half eaten but ignored in favor of just staring at him as he talks. Their conversation meanders, from work and school to friends and family to the coming spring and all Oxford has to offer. Their plates are cleared without them noticing, a dessert menu placed precariously on the small sliver of table not taken up by their hands and arms. Without food in the way, she can't seem to stop touching him, her fingers sliding under the cuff of his jumper as their feet tangle under the table.

"Do you want dessert?" he asks, pouring the last of their second bottle of wine into her glass. She takes it and swirls the dark red liquid around in the glass, watching the candlelight through it as she considers. She is still hungry, yes, but not for dessert. Well, not  _exactly_.

"I want," she says slowly, leaning in and waiting until he does too, "to go to bed."

One eyebrow lifts. "Tired?"

"Not even a little bit."

When their waitress reappears he can't ask for the check fast enough.

She's a little drunk, perhaps a little more than a little, and he catches her when she stumbles into him slightly, wrapping his arm around her waist and holding her close. They separate only to put coats back on and hurry into the street where they scan for taxis. She snuggles into him, sliding her hands under his coat and around his waist as he lifts his hand at every passing car. Pressing herself against his front she raises her lips to the base of his neck, exposed above his jumper, and starts to nibble.

"That's very distracting, you know."

"Oh yes," she grins and nibbles a little harder. When he shouts of a taxi, his voice comes out a squeak.

They are  _rude_  in the back of the cab; there is no other word for it. She can't keep her hands off him and doesn't even try to, just pulls him down for a kiss as soon as he gives the address of the cottage. She expects some sort of protest from him — they certainly get one from the driver — but he just wraps his arms around her and kisses her back. It takes all her willpower not to straddle him on the seat, reach between them and push the necessary garments out of the way so she can just have him the way she's been thinking of since the train from London, but she manages. It feels like ages and a blink of an eye before the cabbie is banging on the Plexiglas partition to demand his fare and the Doctor is paying him with shaking hands. They keep shaking as he fumbles the key into the lock, her body pressed close into his side. Coats hit the floor as soon as they're inside.

"Lights," he says against her mouth just before he sucks hard on her bottom lip. She shakes her head, pushing him back and trying to guess where the little hallway to the bedroom is. They bang hard into the side table, the Doctor groaning on impact.

"No," she pants out, grabbing his hand and leading him towards the bedroom instead. "Bed. No lights, no water, no stopping, just bed."

"What, like this?" he catches up to her, encircles her in his arms from behind and she can feel him, hard and pressing into her lower back. 

"No," she says again, kicking her case out of the middle of the floor as they enter the dark bedroom. There is light from the streetlamps coming in through the window, casting long shadows, but it's not enough so she snaps on the bedside lamp to better see him. "Take off your clothes."

He reaches up immediately, pulls his jumper and t-shirt over his head and casts them aside. He's got his hands on his belt buckle when he stops, stares her down.

"Oi, what about you?"

In one smooth movement she pulls the delightfully stretchy dress up over her head, wiggles out of her little booties, and pushes the tights down to her ankles. She steps out of them and puts her hands on her hips, waiting.  He doesn't move, too busy staring, so she reaches out and grabs his belt, hauling him close and unbuckling it herself. His hands run over her arms, her shoulders, and then her back, unclasping her bra but she clamps her upper arms down and holds it up. When he pouts she pops the button of those slim back trousers and draws the zipper down slowly. He stops pouting immediately. She hooks the waistband of both trousers and pants with her thumbs and draws them down. Halfway down his toned, slender thighs they simply drop to the floor. He toes out of his shoes as he steps clear of the fabric.

All she has wanted to do, and all he's kept her from doing, all day is to touch and she takes her fill now, sliding palms over muscled arms and soft abdomens, over the patch of hair on his chest and his small, pebbled nipples. With a soft growl he pulls her close and kisses her deep. She winds her arms around his neck, feeling his cock, warm and firm, nudging at her hip. When she reaches down to touch that, too, he draws her bra off her shoulders. With a chuckle she tosses it aside and arches into his touch as he immediately cups her breasts. He squeezes gently, moving them together and then apart, up and down, thumbs brushing nipples, and she almost forgets what she's on about, almost lets him take control again, but the jump of his cock in time with his heartbeat reminds her and she grasps his wrists, pushing his hands away. She turns them so his back is to the bed and gives him a gentle push.

"Sit."

"Rose–"

" _Sit_."

"Rose," he says again voice low and seductive, "come here."

"All I have wanted," she says as she takes a step closer, but only one, waiting until he takes another step back towards the bed to follow, "since I got on that train back from London is this. You, and your skin, and your mouth, and your  _cock_." 

She reaches down, strokes the manhood in question once, then returns her hands to her sides until he takes another step back. The backs of his knees are almost touching the duvet.

"But you haven't let me touch, Doctor," she admonishes lightly. "That's very  _rude_  of you. So, Doctor, be a dear and  _sit._ "

He does with a graceless thump and she steps neatly between his legs, sparing him one long, wet kiss before dropping to her knees between his calves and licking a wet line up the underside of his cock. He groans a curse word, low and long.

She doesn't waste time; she  _has_  been thinking about this. She wraps one hand around the base of his cock, holding it steady, and slides her lips over the head, swirling her tongue in slow circles as she sucks lightly. The taste of him makes her giddy; salty and musky and so very, very male. She'd thought of it, night after night in her bed in London, trying to remember, wishing she was elsewhere, in his bed, in his arms. The duvet crinkles slightly as his hands fist in it, pulling at the cotton hard enough to make it creak. She looks up at him as she slides him further in her mouth, sucking longer and slower, bobbing at a moderate, maddening pace. He's staring down at her, mouth agape and eyes glassy with pleasure. Between her legs she feels an answering throb.

"Rose, he groans, hips shifting impatiently, and she picks up her pace a little bit, sucking harder and pumping her fist in accompaniment. One hand reaches up shakily, brushing her shoulder then her cheek and she releases her grip on his thigh to guide it to her hair, giving permission. He gathers up the strands carefully, trying not to pull too hard even as his fingernails scratch her scalp. He is panting, loud and heavy, and grunting in time with her mouth. Slowly, the grunts coalesce into words, soft protests.

"No, no," he manages to mutter, "No, not like–Rose stop please oh so–"

She draws off him slowly, reluctant to part with the heat and the flavor. His hand in her hair tilts her head up slightly, and she must make quite the picture because the moment she meets his eyes she can tell he forgets what he was about to say. His other hand lifts from the mattress so his thumb can run across her shining bottom lip. She's still holding him in one hand and squeezes gently, which brings him back to himself.

"Not like that," he implores and she rises from her knees, standing between his legs once more. Her hands rest on his shoulders and his fly to her hips, sliding under her satiny knickers to grasp her arse tightly.  She leans in and kisses him, mouths opening and sampling the tang of him on her tongue as he slides the knickers down her legs. She straddles his lap easily enough, his cock bumping against her slick entrance as she does. They both shudder with the feeling and as he turns his attention to her neck and down, down, down towards her breasts she reaches between them and guides him inside.

The feel of him, parting and stretching and filling her, it feels like home.

For a long moment everything stops. He pants against her breast, eyes tightly shut and eyelashes tickling sensitive skin, and she holds him there, hands in his hair as he slowly sinks all the way into her.

He shifts back a little so she can get better leverage on the mattress and she carefully she rises back up, hands moving to his shoulders to steady her, then sinks back down. It burns a little — it's been weeks, since before Christmas holiday, since she's had sex — but deliciously, a sparking match that sets her skin, her blood, her soul aflame. He lets go of her with one arm to brace himself, and wraps his other arm around her waist to help steady her as she moves. After a few more slow strokes she picks up the pace wanting, needing more.

They build slowly, first at her pace and then at his as his hips lift up beneath her to meet every downstroke. His mouth returns to her breasts, then her neck, then lips against her sternum, muttering filthy compliments and every curse word she thinks he knows. As they move faster and he leans back further she's able to let her hand wander, scratching from shoulders to chest to nipples and back again, feeling him shudder and shake beneath her. She can feel the pleasure pooling and building inside her but it's not enough, not quite right, too much work and too precariously balanced for her to get the rhythm she really needs. She tries to tell him, pants it out in broken words and almost cries in thanks when he seems to figure it out, lifting her off him and setting her down on her back on the bed. Her only regret is that he slips out of her at the same time.

She shifts up onto the pillows, just barely making it before he is over her, pinning her hands above her head with one hand and lifting her knee over his hip with the other before he guides himself back inside. There is no slow buildup now, she is slick and stretched and  _ready_  and he immediately sets with a fast, pounding rhythm. It makes her squeal.

Their mouths meet messily, kisses only half-controlled, tongues sliding and mouths missing and teeth scraping against cheeks and chins and jaws. She lifts her other leg up over his hip, ankles locking together just above his bum. He growls again and pushes forward and up, raising the angle of her hips so he can thrust even deeper. She keens in his ear and he bites down, lightly, on her shoulder.

Their skin begins to slide, sweat gathering as their pleasure builds and builds, both of them reaching for release but not quite willing to fall. Words and grunts are interchangeable, and coherency is long lost. Instead it is a stream of instructions and affirmations,  _fuck_  and  _good_  and  _harder_ and  _yes_ and  _YES_. His hips stutter once, twice and she knows he's almost there, knows he has only moments left in him though he'll fight to the very end and she tilts her hips up into his even more, nails digging into his shoulders she leans her mouth to his ear and whispers,  _fuck me fuck me fuck me_  in time with each stroke. He shudders and groans her name, bucking into her as he comes hard. It's those final bucks, the way they hit her clit and the twist of his hips, that sends her over the edge right behind him, every muscle in her body clamping down hard on as she clings to him, practically sobbing in relief.

Everything goes hazy gray for a moment and when she comes back to herself he is draped over her, heavy and sweaty and perfect. 

"I love you," she pants, one hand lazily combing through the damp hair at the nape of his neck as they struggle to catch their breath, "I love you, I love you."

With effort she can feel he props himself up on his forearms, one hand awkwardly pushing her hair out of her face, leaning down to kiss her delicately, like she is something precious.

"I love you," he murmurs in return, kissing her after each repetition. The words peter out but the kisses don't and after several minutes he finally slides off her and out of her. She curls into his side, chilled by the air against her sweaty skin, and he reaches down for a blanket at the foot of the bed she hadn't even noticed, drawing it over them. It's not enough for the night but it's fine for the moment as she curls into his side. She'll have to clean up anyway; she can feel him, dripping slowly out of her. It's not preferable but there's no way she's getting up now. She can barely get her limbs to cooperate while horizontal.

She snuggles close, closes her eyes and lets out a deep, satisfied sigh. The Doctor's chuckle bounces her cheek a little bit.

"Tired you out already?" he murmurs, and she feels him drop a kiss on her forehead. She nods, then reconsiders and shakes her head. 

"No?" He laughs again.

"No," she confirms. "Just need a little nap. Little, see?" 

With effort she lifts one hands, holding thumb and index finger just barely apart.

"I see."

"Then we should do it again." She nods once, decisively, and snuggles closer, running from the chill just outside the blanket. She wishes the light would turn itself off. As if reading her mind, he shifts, stretching and reaching and with a satisfied "Ah!" snaps it off.

"Just a nap," he confirms, wrapping them just a little tighter in the blanket, and it's the last thing she hears before she sleeps. 

 

 


	4. chapter 4

"Hnnnnnnnnnnnngh."

The groan comes somewhere from deep beneath the pile of sheets and blankets, somewhere sort of off to Rose's left, and vibrating through her skull. Her head feels heavy, thick and throbbing, and she curls away from the noise, burrows into her own set of blankets as she frowns. The thick curtain of sleep begins to turn sheer and gauzy and she frowns deeper as she fights it back. Unbidden her mouth opens in a yawn and she nearly recoils from herself; her mouth tastes salty and bitter, and is desperately dry. She smacks her lips together a few times and answers the groan with a soft whimper of her own.

To her left the pile of blanket shifts and bucks as the Doctor flops over and curls up behind her, sliding one arm over her waist. He nuzzles his face into the back of her neck and his stubble, longer with another night's growth and even more abrasive, scratches her. It feels heavenly.

"Are we waking up?" he mumbles against her skin. She shuts her eyes tighter and shakes her head. No, no, waking up doesn't sound like the right idea at all. She feels his chuckle more than she hears it. "Good."

He's spooned against her back, knees fitted behind hers, and she shifts, wiggling her hips to inch back against him fully — skin to skin from shoulders to heels. After a few scant moments of squirming his arm around her waist tightens, stilling her. Against her bum she can feel him, firmer than before.

"If you don't want to wake up, you'll have to stop that," he murmurs. His voice is scratchy, almost hoarse, and it sends a little thrill through her. Abruptly, going back to sleep no longer seems like her first choice in morning activities.

Their little cocoon of blankets smells of skin and sweat and sex, is humid and warm from their bodies. She is completely naked and she wishes she had knickers, knows a shower is in her very near future, but she is loathe to move. His hand flattens against her stomach, long fingers splaying across her hip and then rubbing in slow, soothing circles. She's missed this, missed waking up with him.

As if he can read her mind he sighs contentedly and says as much aloud. She grins even though he can't see her and presses back against him again. The movement causes her bladder to throb insistently and she purses her lips in annoyance. She is warm, she knows the room is likely cool, and she very much doesn't want to get up.

"What time is it?" he asks into her hair. She opens her eyes again and looks but there is no clock on the nightstand. She shrugs, careful not to hit him in the face.

"No clock. Morning?" 

"So specific." His chest puffs out with a soft burst of laughter and then he is shifting, pushing himself up with one arm as he maneuvers her down onto her back. He dips his face towards hers and grins.

"Good morning," he says properly and leans in to kiss her. She allows it, lips carefully closed, but when he moves to deepen it she turns her face away. "What?"

"I need to clean my teeth," she answers, slightly sheepish. "You do too. And I need to pee."

He laughs and sits up next to her, sheets and duvet falling to his hips as he gives her room to get up. She stretches first, sheets falling off her as she arches her back and raises arms overhead. Her eyes close involuntarily as she does so she misses the look on the Doctor's face, doesn't know he's leaned down to take a nipple in his mouth until he does. It makes her squeak.

"Oi, don't start," she laughs, threading fingers through his hair as she gently moves his face away. He grins at her, winks, and leans back on his hands as she finally climbs out of bed. She can feel his eyes on her bare bum the entire way to the loo.

She grimaces at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she turns on the tap and squeezes toothpaste onto toothbrush. She looks a fright, dark smears of mascara under her eyes and hair puffed out into every direction. The minty toothpaste is a huge relief and she brushes with vigor, rinsing thoroughly and gulping down a couple handfuls of water afterwards. When she sits on the toilet she realizes there is an ache between her legs, not one of wanting but signaling disuse; she is  _sore_. The revelation makes her grin.

She's debating whether to take a shower when he lets himself in and presses a kiss to her shoulder before moving to the toilet himself. Rose's cheeks burn as she scurries away, giving him privacy he doesn't seem to demand and only returning when she hears the shower. When she sticks her head in the bathroom he's already behind the shower curtain, so she makes to leave, to wait her turn, but he whips the curtain back and reaches for her arm. A trail of shampoo drips down his cheek, dangerously close to his eye, as he draws her towards him.

"Get in here," he says as he pulls her in. She barely has enough time to whip off the undershirt she'd scooped up from the floor before she's under the spray.

He pauses only to rinse the suds from his hair before he hauls her up against him and kisses her, tongue plunging into her mouth. His fingers splay wide over her cheeks, moving her head into place, and she's lost to do anything but melt into him and let him have his way. She scrabbles at the slick, wet skin at his waist, short fingernails scratching lightly and then gripping tightly, feeling him against her belly, firm and getting firmer. Her core throbs with an answering twinge and then a stronger, more painful twinge. One hand slides up his belly to his shoulders, tangling in the longer wet hairs at the nape of his neck, and he pulls away to catch his breath with a shudder. She's pleased to find he's panting as much as she.

When he speaks she expects to hear something like "I want you," or perhaps "Good morning" again (he's prone to repetition before he's had caffeine, this she knows well), but what comes out is "I love you," breathless and awed. She winds her arms up around his neck, pressing herself as close as she can without accidentally maneuvering her face directly into the shower spray that's mostly hitting his shoulder, and answers in kind.

For a few long, glorious moments they can't seem to stop kissing, any other needs totally eclipsed by the desire to taste each other's lips and tongues, the distinctive flavor of mouths altered by the minty fresh flavor of toothpaste. She missed this too, every day she was in London both before and after he came to fix things; starting her day with his taste, his scent, the heat of his skin and the strength of his grip. She revels in it now, the way he takes over all five of her senses through thick shower steam. Then he angles his head a little bit too far to the side and water hits her right in the face.

She squeals, ducking out of the way with a peal of laughter that grows when she catches the stunned look on the Doctor's face. He starts giggling a moment later, pulling her back towards him and turning them around so the hot water is pounding down between her shoulder blades and he can reach the soap better. She closes her eyes, groaning in pleasure as the hot water starts to relax stiff muscles, and he starts to soap up.

Her head still feels stuffy from sleep and sex and too much wine, but the steam soon starts to clear it. They maneuver around each other, trading turns under the water as they make sure a much skin slides against skin as possible.  There's no intent behind it, not really, both of them bleary and caffeine deprived, but it feels wonderful. He finishes faster than her, ribs her a little bit about taking so long in the shower as he climbs out. She watched his silhouette through the semi-sheer curtain, long legs and trim waist rubbed dry with a fluffy towel. His hair already looks a riot again.

"Tea or coffee?" he asks as he raises the towel to his head. Even only in shadow, the vigorous motions he uses to dry his hair are hilarious and she bites her lip to hold back a laugh. "I think Sarah said she had some instant around here."

"Coffee, please."

When she's sure he's out of the bathroom she slides the curtain back carefully and tiptoes back out to the bedroom, dripping in her wake. She digs her razor out of her pack and dashes back to the shower. She feels silly and self-conscious at the same time; he was just feeling her up in the shower, not to mention the sheer debauchery of last night, and she'd stopped shaving her legs obsessively for him well before Christmas, but she feels the need to be perfect, ideal, for him.

Frowning, she tries to push those thoughts out of mind and focuses on finishing before the hot water runs out.

The Doctor's already on the sofa, sipping his tea and watching what looks like a documentary about space and astronomy on the BBC, when she emerges from the bedroom. She takes a moment just to take him in, all elbows and knees with his feet on the coffee table and his tea cradled close to his chest. He hadn't bothered to dress, not really, just pulled on his pajama bottoms and the jumper he'd worn last night. His cheeks are dark with the beginnings of a beard, something beyond scruff now and so attractive. The television program is reflected in his glasses. A flash of heat runs through her and she scurries to the kitchen to get her coffee.

"You took forever," he grumbles as she settles on the sofa beside him, lifting one arm so she can curl up against his side.

"I needed a good scrub." She runs her nose along his jaw. "You're scratchy."

"Should I shave?"

"No!" She answers rather quickly and he smirks. "I like it."

"Mmm, I suppose it does suit me," he grins slyly at her. "What d'you think? Foxy?"

"You  _nerd_ ," she laughs and slides one hand across his stomach. It seems to vibrate a bit under her touch. "Are you hungry?"

He frowns. "No, I don't think so. Not for a while at least. Are you? I can make toast."

"No, I'm fine," she lifts the coffee slightly. "This'll do for now. I'm a little hungover, I think. Between the wine and the lack of sleep…"

She trails off and laughs again when he wiggles his eyebrows at her, the tip of his tongue coming out to rest on top of his teeth as he does. "Nutter."

He doesn't have a reply for that, just sips his tea and cuddles down into the sofa and her. A comfortable silence settles over them.

"What are we watching?" she asks after a few minutes as she blows across the hot liquid in her mug. It's instant coffee, oddly sweet and acrid at the same time, and she grimaces but takes another sip anyway. Could be worse.

"They're playing Carl Sagan's old Cosmos series, from the 70s," he answers, stretching his legs out fully.

"So thirty years out of date, then?"

"It's a  _classic_ , Rose."

She grins into her mug and he squeezes her a bit. He narrates along with the program softly into her ear, updating the science, the discoveries, the theories. She listens to him more than Carl Sagan, finally feeling at ease around him, comfortable, normal. The air between them it's clear, she feels like she can take deep breaths again.

Well, mostly.

Almost.

Except for that one little… no.

No, because she said it last night, she it was done, over with, behind them, and told him not to woo her, not to make up for anything, and that wasn't a lie. She doesn't need him to make up for anything, or to apologize. She just has a question. She can ask a question, right?

_We make our world significant by the courage of our questions_ , Carl Sagan intones on the television,  _and by the depth of our answers._

_Cheers, mate_ , she thinks wryly at the screen. 

Her coffee gone, mug empty, and she shifts out of the Doctor's grip to put it down on the coffeetable, his too when he holds it out to her. He keeps his arm out, clearly expecting her to settle back against his side, but she turns towards him and folders her legs up so her toes are against his hip and there's a touch of space between them instead. She rests her chin on her knees and reaches one hand out to stroke through his hair. She loves when his hair is just washed; fluffy and soft, strands separating easily without any of the usual wax to get in the way. After only a few moments he's relaxed under her touch, eyes watching her through drooping lids and a soft smile starting to turn the corners of his mouth.

She's screwing up her courage for something important but when he looks like that it's impossible not to kiss him, so she does.

He cups her cheek, holding her in place as he coaxes her lips apart to taste her. It is so easy to get lost when he is like this, unhurried and existing purely in the present and how good it feels. She almost drifts away into the kiss,  _almost_ , but that little voice inside her is still speaking, still insisting on coming out.

She pulls away slowly and when he chases her lips with his she tightens her grip in his hair and holds him in place.

His eyes are even more hooded now, his lips swollen and red. It takes some effort to get the words out of her mouth.

"Can I ask you a question?"

A tiny wrinkle appears between his eyebrows. "Of course."

"It's about something you said," she starts and when his eyes darken with confusion she clarifies. "In London. About Reinette."

The wrinkle deepens into a full frown and he shifts so he's sitting a bit straighter. Her hand falls out of his hair and she drops it to his wrist, holding lightly as if not to let him get away. Her fingertips stroke the delicate skin there with the barest of brushes.

"I thought you said we were past that. Last night, you said that last night."

"We are past that." He looks decidedly skeptical and she rushes to reassure him. "Really, we are. I just have… it's just a question, promise. Can't I ask questions?"

He's not happy about this, she can tell; his mouth is tight, pressed into a line. But nods sharply before letting out a breath.

"'Course you can. That's you, Rose Tyler… always asking questions."

"It's not even about Reinette, not really, it's about what you said in London, when you told me you were scared. You said you're a coward; that you run away. Doctor, why are you always running?"

"Always asking the  _right_  questions," he breathes, looking at her with something like awe. "How the hell do you do that?"

"I mean it," she admonishes, holding his gaze even as her cheeks warm. Her hand twists and laces their fingers together. "Don't evade with compliments. I need to know."

His eyes shift to somewhere over her shoulder and he stares there for a long time, almost long enough to make her think he's not going to answer at all. She's about to give up, to get huffy and pissed, when suddenly he meets her eyes again, though his gaze is still somewhere far away.

"Because if I don't run they leave," he murmurs, not sad or self-pitying but matter-of-fact in a way that breaks her heart to pieces. "They leave, because they should, or because they've found somebody else. In the end… It's easier, if I don't stay. If I don't let them stay either."

"Well, that's stupid."

Whatever he's expected her to say, that's clearly not it because his eyebrows leap up into his hairline so fast she almost thinks they're about to fly off his forehead. 

"Beg pardon?" 

"That's stupid," she enunciates. "No one can stay with someone who's already leaving. Haven't you ever given anyone a chance?" 

"Watch your step, Tyler," he warns, eyes flashing hard as stone, and she moves her hand back to his hair, soothing with touch once more. 

"Doctor, you are the most brilliant man I've ever met and you're also a  _complete_  moron. I know your life has been… extraordinary and extraordinarily difficult, but you can't just presume what a person's thinking. I don't ever want you to presume what I'm thinking, do you understand me?" Sharp indignation blooms in her chest and her fingers tighten in his hair. "You are very lucky that I'm apparently just as mad as you are, because I'm never gonna leave you. You complete nutter, I've known you half a year and I haven't been able to imagine life without you for months, but the only person thinking about  _leaving_  is  _you_ , and I won't let you just leave me all the time. I want to stay with you, but I have to be able to  _trust_ you. Can I trust you?" 

She emphasizes her point by giving his hair a sharper tug, and waits for a response. He doesn’t look defensive anymore, just dumbfounded, mouth slightly agape and hair askew. In the midst of this fit of pique she finds she badly wants to kiss him, but she stays still. She needs to know he hears her. He is a brilliant talker, her Doctor, but he is not always the best listener. 

"Rose," he finally says, a little hoarse. She waits for him to go on but he doesn't, just keeps staring at her like she's an alien or maybe a smaller deity of some sort. "I'm not going to leave. I don't  _want_  to leave. I tried and it felt worse than it ever felt before. It felt  _wrong_. You're right we must be mad, and we must be mad together because I've only known  _you_  for half a year, and I don't ever want to leave again. I've only got one heart, and it’s yours. Do you know how daft that is?" 

"I think you're dangerously close to insulting me." She can't help but smile at him, even as her mind races, even as his words sink in. He looks indignant, almost outraged, as if she's leveled the greatest insult in the universe at him. Perhaps she has. 

"But do you understand?" he sits up straight, knocking her hand out of his hair and grasping it tightly, bring both of her hands against his chest as his eyes burn into hers. 

What she sees there is bottomless.

"Yes," she nods. "Yes, I understand. Do you understand?" 

"Yes. I promise." 

She smiles at him then, big and genuine and easy because she feels better, feels lighter, feels solid for the first time in so long. It takes him a moment but he smiles too, and it's not until she does that she kisses him, short and sound, a loud smacker. 

"Good. And  _I_  promise that I'm done talking about this. That was my last question. And I don't have anymore, because I don't want to talk about this anymore, or fight about this anymore. I want to fight about how you leave your dirty pants all over the floor and always make me pick them up when it's laundry day." 

"I did that  _once_." 

"Once a week, maybe." 

"Why you–c'mere!" 

There's not much in the way of space between them so it only takes a swipe of his long arms for him to catch her, trap her, pull her down on the couch beside him. They giggle and squirm at first but settle quickly, Rose wrapped up in his arms and both their heads sharing the same throw pillow. He reaches behind them to pull a quilt off the back of the couch and she nuzzles her face into his neck, kissing a line down to his collarbone and then pausing there, taking warm skin between her lips and teeth and sucking until she's sure she's left a mark. When she lets go and draws back to check her handiwork, the purple bruise that's appeared there gives her a deep sense of satisfaction. 

A kiss pressed to her forehead makes her look up and then his lips are on hers, his arms drawing tight around her, so tight she almost can't catch her breath. She manages to wiggle her arms out from where they're trapped between chests, one hand sliding to his shoulder and the other around to his back to stroke the patch of skin between his pajamas and where his jumper's ridden up. His skin breaks out into gooseflesh and his hips press into hers. It takes little maneuvering to get her onto her back beneath him. 

Clothes aren't shed so much as shoved out of the way — her hands under his jumper to trace the muscles in his back as he pushes her oversized t-shirt up under her armpits to expose her breasts — and their mouths stay pressed together in long, messy, wet kisses. She hadn't put on bottoms, just a long t-shirt and cardigan and a pair of knickers, so it's easy for him to slip his hand between her legs. She's still sore and when she arches away even while bucking forward, he takes notice.

"You all right?"

"Just sore," she answers, trying to draw him back down but the smirk that spreads over her face is so self-indulgent, so oozing with male pride that it stops her, makes her eyes roll instead. "Shut up." 

"I didn't say anything." 

"You didn't have to."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No," she lifts her hips into his hand, lets him feel how wet she already is for him, "just be gentle, yeah?"

"Yeah," he breathes and then they're kissing again. Her nails rake down his back on their journey to his hips and he shudders. They work at cross purposes for a few minutes, the Doctor quite happily focused on the fingers inside her while she's trying to get him to lift up enough for her to get his bottoms over his bum and his cock into her hand, but when she succeeds it's worth it to feel the way he freezes, drops his head into the crook of her neck and just groans. She gives him another squeeze and a slow long stroke and then he's had enough. His fingers abandon her core to pull her knickers aside and she guides him inside her. 

It burns as he settles into her, but he is true to his word and his strokes are shallow and careful as he begins to move. The heat and the friction build inside her, starting at her sex and spreading outward in waves until all of her is engulfed in tingling pleasure, but still he seems unhurried. Even as the pain shifts from hindrance to enhancement his hips move lazily, thrusts deepening but not speeding up. She lifts her legs around his hips and throws her head back and shuts her eyes tight. She can feel his breath on her cheek and hear his small mutterings, and she lets his voice wash over her. 

When she comes it's not with a shout but with a full body shudder and a sigh, all her muscles holding as tight to him as they can and she feels the echo of it in her heart. The night before felt like an exorcism and an inauguration, hot and intense and almost frantic; this feels like a homecoming. When he follows her a few moments later, dropping down on her half-boneless and sweaty, she just holds him tighter and waits for him to catch his breath. 

She hisses when he slides out of her, and that look of unapologetic pride returns. She smacks his chest lightly. His only reply is a chuckle as he pulls his pajamas back up, sheds the wool jumper completely, and reaches over her for the quilt they knocked onto the floor. She pulls her shirt down and shifts her knickers back into place and happily curls up in front of him facing the television, little spoon to his big spoon. He hums happily in her ear, kisses the shell, then yawns. Loudly. She laughs at that.

"Sunday morning nap time?" she asks.

She can feel his smile in her hair as he answers. "It's Tuesday."

 

***

When they wake up from their nap it's late afternoon and the sun is already beginning to set through Sarah Jane's sheer curtains. Rose makes them cheesy scrambled eggs with spinach on toast and the Doctor makes a fresh pot of tea. They eat at the small kitchen table, chairs close together so she can stretch her legs into his lap, food heaped on a single plate. He chases her fork with his, trying to steal bites for no other reason than to flirt, and she laughs and rests her head on his shoulder when he pauses to sip his tea.

"A toast," he offers, lifting his mug and she lifts hers in turn. "To you, Rose Tyler. The one adventure I thought I'd never have."

" _I'm_  an adventure?" she asks, holding her tea away and avoiding the clink for a moment longer.

"Well, living a life, day after day. That's the biggest adventure of all, isn't it?"

 She thinks that's perhaps the most romantic thing he's ever said to her.

"Well, if you put it that way. To a new term, and a new day, and a new life."

Their mugs clink and she lifts hers to her mouth to drink, but before she can he speaks again.

"Together."

 

 


End file.
